The Blood on Your Hands
by Traumaddict
Summary: He pressed play – "Felicity," his voice had growled, sounding different through the machine. "If Laurel dies tonight, it will be on your hands, do you understand me? If you had gotten back from Central earlier, she might not have gotten..." – and earnestly believed, not for the first time, if he was the monster Tommy Merlyn perceived him to be.


The Blood on Your Hands

"Mr. Queen—" a nurse, mousy-haired and so much smaller than him, wedged herself between him and the door as the gurney he'd been chasing, the one Laurel was strapped too, disappeared behind it, "— you must remain _calm_." She sounded terrified as she talked to him in a stern tone and when he caught sight of her hands, he found that he didn't care that she was shaking, that his damaged interior was peering through the cracks of his playboy facade. "_Please_ return to the waiting area! There is nothing you can do! If you resist, I will have to call security."

If he was being totally honest with himself, he could easily take the hospital's measly security. They were nothing compared to genetically enhanced soldiers. They were nothing compared to the nightmares on his purgatory. But something inside of him, something _remote_, willed him to comply. Later, he'd wonder if that same remoteness had sensed what was to come.

"Okay," was his clipped reply as he spun and headed back the way he'd come. Diggle had anonymously contacted the authorities about her injuries while Oliver had rushed home to dress, to change from the Arrow to the CEO of Queen Consolidated. Nonetheless, Laurel's blood had somehow found a way under his fingernails, caking uncomfortably, and his socks were leaden with it too.

"Do you know if she's going to be okay?" Diggle asked when he reached the waiting area.

He ignored the question, knowing that he was asking for more of Oliver's benefit than his own. Instead, gritting his teeth, he dragged his phone from his pocket and dialled a familiar series of numbers. It rang once, twice before shooting straight to voice mail. "_Felicity_," he growled, alarming his friend. "If Laurel dies tonight, it will be on _your _hands, do you understand me? If you had gotten back from Central _earlier_, she might not have gotten—"

In his rant, he hadn't noticed a second gurney being waded through the throngs of people behind him, bulleting past Quentin Lance on its way to ED, until Diggle had grappled him out of the way. He'd stumbled, taking notice of the speed first and wondering – "why hadn't Laurel been treated with the same urgency?" – before he absorbed fuchsia lipstick and blonde hair. His heart sank and the phone fell— its screen cracked on impact, splintering along the entire length as her name came up his throat like garbled gibberish. The Puppeteer's comment at the warehouse, before he'd been arrested, seemed to make sense now: "she seemed to know that you'd pick her." Oliver hadn't known what he'd meant until now.

Diggle responded first, darting after the crowd of shouting paramedics, not quite realising that Oliver's brain was running slow. Then, a moment later, he was in pursuit as well— shoving by people like a man possessed. He'd caught up to Diggle in a matter of seconds, the older man having been stopped by the same bossy nurse that had denied him access to see Laurel. This time, however, he didn't pause. He barged right through and got about ten paces, was so close that he could see her nude stiletto hanging off the thin mattress, before security got a hold of him. Oliver had dispatched the first two with ease before he realised that he wasn't supposed to know how to protect himself; that he was supposed to be a spoilt brat from a wealthy family that didn't know hardship. He recoiled then, albeit reluctantly, but his blood was scalding in his veins, scorching his skin as the truth dawned on him— judging by Diggle's convicted expression, so did he.

Oliver Queen and John Diggle were banned from hospital premises for twenty-four hours after starting a brawl with security when Felicity Smoak, Oliver's executive assistant, was rushed to hospital after allegedly been found strung up like a puppet from rafters at a partially collapsed Queen Consolidated warehouse in the Glades. He'd read it all in the newspaper the next morning, vaguely curious to how the information had been leaked so quickly. But, then again, Starling City press seemed unrivalled when it came to scandalous coverage (although, Gotham City had a pretty notorious media). Most details on what actually happened at both the hospital and the warehouse had been disclosed from the public, other than the fact that the Arrow helped intercept the Puppeteer (whom has been held responsible) after he rescued Laurel Lance, 'unaware that Ms. Smoak had been in danger too.' The attack, he found as he burned the newspaper at the mansion, pouring whiskey over the top, was blatantly personal.

"Our suspension from the hospital will be relieved in an hour," John reminded him as he descended the Foundry stairwell. He'd been almost entirely quiet since they'd learnt that Felicity had become a successful victim to a grotesque procedure. The only difference this time, however, was that he had preserved her and kept her _alive_. "Will you go see Laurel?"

"Yes," he admitted, unsurprised at the guilt that surged as consequence to his truth. He'd always pick Laurel. The press knew that. Digg knew that. Hell, even Felicity knew that. She'd be disappointed in him, true, look at him with sad, weary blue eyes, but she wouldn't be surprised. And that's what made her constant devotion, even with Barry Allen in the picture, all the more devastating. She had surrendered her safety; sacrificed _everything_, including her own life, just so he didn't have to live in a world without Laurel. He gritted his teeth, mouth thinning, and took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. "She needs me,"

"Laurel's going to live," John said, taking Oliver completely off guard. "She's a little malnourished, has one hell of a cut on her shoulder but she's going to live,"

"What's your point?" he hummed coolly. "She still needs me."

"Detective Lance called me earlier, Oliver." The way he talked, his tone grave and distant, made the younger male blanch. "He checked up on Felicity for us."

He knew it was cruel to the both of them but he said: "Sore wrists...? Bad posture...? Cramped neck...? All of the above...?"

Diggle didn't answer straight away but Oliver could imagine his expression, could clearly visualise his brows furrowing, his mouth pinching and his features tighten with rage. He could practically feel it roll off of him in waves but he didn't lash out, not in the way Oliver had been provoking him to do so since he'd seen her fuchsia mouth rimmed with her own blood. Instead, like the calm before the storm, John Diggle said: "Our girl has twenty percent of surviving the next twenty four hours." Then, just as Oliver's world caved in on itself, crashing, obliterating everything in his life, his only friend ascended the stairwell and left him there. His only company was an empty bottle of Jack and an armoury of arrows he wanted, more than anything, more than even Laurel, to use on his own body.

Instead, he reached over to Felicity's Galaxy, punched in the code, and contacted her voice mail inbox. He pressed play – "_Felicity_," his voice had growled, sounding different through the machine. "If Laurel dies tonight, it will be on _your _hands, do you understand me? If you had gotten back from Central _earlier_, she might not have gotten..." – and earnestly believed, not for the first time, that he was the monster Tommy Merlyn perceived him to be.

* * *

_I have an exam on the Spanish Armada tomorrow, bright and early, and its 11:29p.m. Instead of sleeping soundly like I should be, or even studying, I procrastinated and wrote this instead. Its dark, it's depressing, and it's based entirely on season two's episode Blast Radius. However, instead of the heart-felt apology that concluded the episode, another villain intercepted their lives. For those whom inhale tragic material like this, I hope you enjoyed, and for those whom were looking for a happily ever after, I'm sorry you came to the wrong place._

_Traumaddict_


End file.
